A diary about the other side of moving abroad

When I woke up from my unconsciousness, nothing had changed in my situation. I was still lying in the same room, with the same white walls and the same lilac bush on the table. Only it looked like the lilac bush had moved a little closer to death. It wasn't a specific physical observation, but its whole appearance seemed a little flabbier, a little more transient, no longer as fresh and firm as one would expect given its days. My hand was still on the bed, in the same position as a few minutes ago. Or hours. Or days.
I didn't know how long I'd been out. But the stabbing pain when I opened my eyes didn't last as long and the time it took to get used to the brightness was shorter. My senses became sharper. Apart from my sense of smell, I could perceive my surroundings clearly in the field of vision I had left. I heard footsteps in the corridor, saw the dying lilacs and felt the sharp wind on my face as it cut my cheeks through the open window. The footsteps in the corridor came closer and suddenly I was gripped by a longing for company, a longing to drain into someone else's world through their eyes. I wanted to scream, to draw attention to myself, but as soon as the impulse to scream, triggered by anxiety, was supposed to pass to my body, this power somehow leaked out of my body. I could no longer reach my muscles. They refused to obey. I could neither scream nor shout, let alone speak.
I panicked whether I could still swallow when everything in my body was numb and immobile, whether I could still breathe. My heart was beating faster, I felt, imagined or not, a higher production of saliva in my mouth and my swallowing reflex could no longer keep up with the panic rising in me. I also started to hyperventilate. It felt like claustrophobia in my own skin. But there was no escape from it. I wanted to scream, but my mouth remained silent. The stifled scream dragged me back into nothingness.